day she was killed.”
“Great. Does it say anything like ‘Philip is off in the study loading his automatic’?”
“No such luck. By the way, what did you think of the Oliver apartment?”
“Spiffy joint.”
“Of course, but did you notice a laptop anywhere?”
“Nope. One room loaded with computer stuff, but no laptop in sight.”
“Well, Mandy always kept one by her bed. Philip used to complain about it all the time. Every morning, she’d wake up and fire off a string of e-mails before she even washed her face. Said it kept her in touch, and she didn’t have to hear anyone else talk. She just sat propped up on pillows, clattering away at the keyboard for an hour or so. The thoughts went straight to her fingertips.”
“E-mails can be tough to track down.”
“Not Mandy’s. She had things rigged so all her messages fed automatically into a desktop file. Preserving her correspondence for the Archives of American Art. Or maybe for her memoirs, who knows?”
“Which means we’ve got the electronic equivalent of a diary.”
“We would if we had the laptop, but someone beat us to it.”
“Now, who would want to do a thing like that?” Hogan laughed glumly. “If we recover that computer, we’ll have the text of every e-mail message she sent in the last three months.”
“More like three years. It will be a tome.”
“Something for you to read through at your leisure.”
“Thanks. What did I ever do to you?”
“Don’t ask.”
Hogan didn’t say any more. He and I have known each other too long, too well, to be without a few reciprocal injuries. We joke about the small wounds; the others are pointless to discuss.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that Philip’s girlfriend might do his dirty work for him?”
“She loves him,” I said, “so I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Does she have a set of keys?”
“I don’t know. Philip doesn’t share all his domestic arrangements with me.”
“But you never saw Claudia use keys at the building?”
“When I saw her, she was always with Philip.”
“How touching. No hanky-panky between you and the Italian wench, on the side?”
“No.”
“I’m impressed. Honor among philanderers?”
“Maybe. Caution anyhow.”
“I think I better talk to her right away.”
“Tomorrow? I can call her now and see if she’s free.”
“The sooner the better.”
10
The next afternoon, we drove over to Williamsburg and parked Hogan’s dinged-up Torino near the Bedford Avenue subway stop.
“So this is where Philip Oliver wanted to hang out for fun?” Hogan asked.
Through the windshield, we watched small bands of twenty-somethings, in faded black jeans and scuzzy sneakers, drifting in May sunlight among bookstores, music shops, delis, low-end boutiques, and slacker-chic restaurants.
“You haven’t met Claudia yet,” I said.
We got out and walked down a side street toward the river, passing one low, boarded-up industrial building after another, until we came to a steel door bearing a partially peeled-away poster for Johnny Bubonic and the Pestilence. Claudia’s buzzer dangled at the end of two wires.
“I hope the doorman finds the
signorina
at home,” Hogan said.
There was no intercom. After a minute or two, we heard sounds behind the door and Claudia leaned out to swing it open.
“Jesus,” Hogan said under his breath.
Claudia was wearing a scooped-neck black top and tight jeans. Her skin was startlingly white, her face accented by long, midnight-black hair.
She smiled. “
Ciao
, Jack,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “What is the name of your friend?”
“This is Hogan. He’s kind of a cop.”
“Yes, of course. Philip told me. You want to know if I maybe killed his old wife. A very reasonable question. I think she wished, naturally, to murder me if she could. So why not wonder the other?” She put her hand out to Hogan.
“You have a gorgeous smile,” he told her, and pressed the back of her hand to his
“Great. Does it say anything like ‘Philip is off in the study loading his automatic’?”
“No such luck. By the way, what did you think of the Oliver apartment?”
“Spiffy joint.”
“Of course, but did you notice a laptop anywhere?”
“Nope. One room loaded with computer stuff, but no laptop in sight.”
“Well, Mandy always kept one by her bed. Philip used to complain about it all the time. Every morning, she’d wake up and fire off a string of e-mails before she even washed her face. Said it kept her in touch, and she didn’t have to hear anyone else talk. She just sat propped up on pillows, clattering away at the keyboard for an hour or so. The thoughts went straight to her fingertips.”
“E-mails can be tough to track down.”
“Not Mandy’s. She had things rigged so all her messages fed automatically into a desktop file. Preserving her correspondence for the Archives of American Art. Or maybe for her memoirs, who knows?”
“Which means we’ve got the electronic equivalent of a diary.”
“We would if we had the laptop, but someone beat us to it.”
“Now, who would want to do a thing like that?” Hogan laughed glumly. “If we recover that computer, we’ll have the text of every e-mail message she sent in the last three months.”
“More like three years. It will be a tome.”
“Something for you to read through at your leisure.”
“Thanks. What did I ever do to you?”
“Don’t ask.”
Hogan didn’t say any more. He and I have known each other too long, too well, to be without a few reciprocal injuries. We joke about the small wounds; the others are pointless to discuss.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that Philip’s girlfriend might do his dirty work for him?”
“She loves him,” I said, “so I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Does she have a set of keys?”
“I don’t know. Philip doesn’t share all his domestic arrangements with me.”
“But you never saw Claudia use keys at the building?”
“When I saw her, she was always with Philip.”
“How touching. No hanky-panky between you and the Italian wench, on the side?”
“No.”
“I’m impressed. Honor among philanderers?”
“Maybe. Caution anyhow.”
“I think I better talk to her right away.”
“Tomorrow? I can call her now and see if she’s free.”
“The sooner the better.”
10
The next afternoon, we drove over to Williamsburg and parked Hogan’s dinged-up Torino near the Bedford Avenue subway stop.
“So this is where Philip Oliver wanted to hang out for fun?” Hogan asked.
Through the windshield, we watched small bands of twenty-somethings, in faded black jeans and scuzzy sneakers, drifting in May sunlight among bookstores, music shops, delis, low-end boutiques, and slacker-chic restaurants.
“You haven’t met Claudia yet,” I said.
We got out and walked down a side street toward the river, passing one low, boarded-up industrial building after another, until we came to a steel door bearing a partially peeled-away poster for Johnny Bubonic and the Pestilence. Claudia’s buzzer dangled at the end of two wires.
“I hope the doorman finds the
signorina
at home,” Hogan said.
There was no intercom. After a minute or two, we heard sounds behind the door and Claudia leaned out to swing it open.
“Jesus,” Hogan said under his breath.
Claudia was wearing a scooped-neck black top and tight jeans. Her skin was startlingly white, her face accented by long, midnight-black hair.
She smiled. “
Ciao
, Jack,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “What is the name of your friend?”
“This is Hogan. He’s kind of a cop.”
“Yes, of course. Philip told me. You want to know if I maybe killed his old wife. A very reasonable question. I think she wished, naturally, to murder me if she could. So why not wonder the other?” She put her hand out to Hogan.
“You have a gorgeous smile,” he told her, and pressed the back of her hand to his
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